


the promises between us.

by frederickdesvoeux (doomdxys)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (honestly it's all i'm going for), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tender Sex, Tenderness, The Constant Worries and Doubts of Francis Crozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29007153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomdxys/pseuds/frederickdesvoeux
Summary: Sometimes James disappears for days, one time weeks, and Francis becomes more aware of everything. Mostly of how slowly time seems to pass without the noisy bustling coming from James' office. It's as if the house misses James as much as Francis does, becoming quiet and oppressing, every empty room a reminder of absence.(Months after getting rescued, Francis still struggles with adjusting to Aston Abbotts. After James returns from a trip, they reunite properly.)
Relationships: Francis Crozier/James Clark Ross
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	the promises between us.

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to Kat [annecoulmanross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/pseuds/annecoulmanross) for beta'ing that this (after I decided to nearly die at the plot of this). 
> 
> Mostly want to note that they got rescued before Francis lost his hand in this, since I sort of forgot that part of the show until after I wrote 70% of this fic. 
> 
> Inspired by [this poem](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/689721703756333086/787762758926073886/image0.jpg) but then it took a life of its own so there's only a small direct reference to it.
> 
> Also for the Terror Bingo: "There's nowhere in the world I'd rather be"

Aston Abbotts is overwhelming—England is overwhelming. It's loud and full of expectations Francis doesn't know how to meet, doesn't know if he can ever meet. 

So he stays inside, surrounded by an ever more quickly disappearing autumn sun as the year slowly passes by. The days would be lost on him—especially after the Admiralty stops hounding him down for explanations he's both unwilling and unable to give—if it were not for James busying around the house, still his chaotic self, still having to deal with more people than he wanted. 

Sometimes James disappears for days, one time weeks, and Francis becomes more aware of everything. Mostly of how slowly time seems to pass without the noisy bustling coming from James' office. It's as if the house misses James as much as Francis does, becoming quiet and oppressing, every empty room a reminder of absence. 

It's unfair to Anne, who tries her best to make him feel at home, but between her and the children, Francis can't help but feel like an outsider, no matter how much she says James is just as much his husband as he is hers. 

(“I know,” he tells her for what feels like the fiftieth time since he’d gotten back home. Her fingers are soft in his hair as they watch the children play before the fire.

(She sighs, softly but loud enough for him to hear, yet there is no comment. Of course he knows, of course it still feels like he's intruding.)

He tries to make himself invisible instead, tries to disappear into the shadows of the long hallways and not disturb the rest of the house. That, also, is something Anne scolds him about, however gently, but when James arrives home and Francis waits for his own reunions until the mornings after, he knows he's doing the right thing; in his own mind, anyway. 

It’s no different mid-december, James’ letter held loosely in his hand as Francis sits in the chair by the window.  _ I shall return on the seventeenth _ , James had written back, _ the trip is taking longer than expected _ . So on the seventeenth, after dinner, Francis excuses himself quietly and retreats to his room. Anne's worried gaze escapes him, as do the children’s questions after he disappears up the stairs.

The fireplace had been lit before his arrival, surely on Anne's request as Francis hadn't thought of it at all. He drops his clothes on the way to the armchair near the window; jacket, waistcoat, his shirt buttons wrestle his shaking fingers as he undoes them. His toes are cold on the wooden floor but it doesn't matter.

He sits unmoving, eyes flickering from the letter James sent to the snow coming down in thick flakes outside. Terrible weather to travel, but no doubt James would have insisted on doing it anyway, set on returning home after a trip already far too long. 

* * *

Francis gets startled out of his thoughts by the door creaking loudly as it opens, James entering without even bothering to knock, clearly uncaring of Francis’ possible need for privacy. Outside the last of the sun had set, the previously visible trees at the end of the domain hidden in darkness.

“James—” Francis looks up, bewildered, as James steps inside; coat, hat and even boots already shed somewhere else in the house. His hair is tussled; not from a hat, Francis can tell, but from Anne’s fingers having gone through it. 

James doesn’t reply instantly, walking briskly towards the hearth as if he’s trying to hide himself from Francis, lost in thoughts the latter isn’t privy to. “I—” he starts; stops again and merely frowns at the fire. “I thought I’d come say I’d returned.”

Francis knows there’s more behind James' sudden nighttime visit. Had it been a simple statement of return, he wouldn’t be in the room, much less fiddling with his rings and struggling with his words. “Darling?”

"Anne told me you have been secluding yourself again," James blurts out. 

Francis doesn't reply, merely watches as James undoes his waistcoat and shirt, almost chaotically, like he’s desperately trying to occupy his hands. Francis doesn't want to reply, they both know Anne is right—he has been hiding, like he always does, like he always suspected James to not know about, probably an underestimation of Anne on his part.

“You do know she loves you, Frank dear." James shivers involuntarily as he turns away from the fire to face Francis. Even shadowed and indefinitely soft, his eyes are intense. 

Francis can't help but feel judged. "I know," he whispers, not even sure that James can hear him, “She tells me. Often." He's not sure why he phrases it like he does; he is grateful for her, yet his words feel like he's trying to convey annoyance.

James doesn't seem to take it the wrong way. If anything, Francis isn't sure in what way he's taken it as he merely turns to the fire again, eyes lingering on Francis as long as they can before moving away. He looks tired, Francis notes, he has to be tired, yet he makes no attempt to get them to bed or to leave, like he's waiting for Francis to say something. 

"James, I—“

He doesn't make it very far, James' voice unnaturally soft as he interrupts. “Have I done something to upset you?" 

Silence falls, uncomfortable and fragile, Francis shocked into it with his mouth half-open. Why would James think he'd done anything wrong? The suggestion makes no sense in Francis' mind. 

“James?”

James turns at that, the hopelessness in Francis’ voice, the insecurity and worry. “What bothers you, Frank—my love?"

“It is not you, James dear. God—“ He almost physically shrinks into the chair, horrified by the idea that James has been blaming himself. “—it is far from you." 

It’s like the room becomes several square feet smaller in seconds, James being in front of him almost instantly, sinking onto his knees and grabbing Francis’ hands. “Then what is it, Frank? You've been distant, evasive, despite everything. Why won't you let yourself heal, here, with me."

Francis lets the cold touch of James' forehead sink into his hands as the man lowers his head. The words feel stuck in his throat now he is forced to deal with them. “I—“ James kisses his fingers, interrupting his train of thought. "I don't know the meaning of my own life anymore, James." 

He sighs, his body folding over, his head coming to rest on James' hair. He wants to explain it—the loss of men he can't process and the loss of dreams he can't replace. Exploration has nothing to offer him anymore, yet England has refused to start feeling like home. 

“Yes, you do," James whispers. He forces Francis to look at him, the intenseness almost too much for Francis to bear. “You do. You've just forgotten, but Frank—“ His lips are close enough for Francis to feel James' hot breath on his own, the slightest of brushes against Francis’ lips as he speaks. “—but you will remember again. We will remember again—find it again."

‘I promise’ is hidden somewhere in James' words and even as he doesn't speak them, Francis hears them. They reverb through the soft kiss James presses to his bottom lip. 

Francis barely gets a chance to kiss him back, James gently kissing—brushing—his way across Francis’ face, over his cheek, stubbled from a day of not shaving, to the dip under his ear, behind his jawline. 

The protest dies on the back of Francis’ tongue as James digs his fingers into the base of his skull, pressing his lips hard to Francis’ skin.  _ I promise _ . Francis can’t be sure that’s what James mouths against his jawline, but it feels right. 

“James—” he tries still, but James prevents him from pulling away, fingertips pressing more firmly into the back of his neck. His other hand is still cold as it slips under Francis’ robe, under his shirt, fingers soft through the curls across his chest. The intentions are clear as James finds Francis’ mouth again, wilder this time, a possible slight desperation. 

James’ lashes are almost ticklish against his cheek as James pulls away. “I’m hungry,” he whispers. His voice vibrates against Francis’ bottom lip, a shiver down Francis’ spine as the fingers across his ribs tighten into them. 

Francis knows the implication—there is no food in the room, no servants to fetch them anything. “What for?” he asks anyway, half his voice stuck in the back of his throat. His lungs expand—his ribs expand against James’ touch. 

James buries his face in Francis' neck, teeth grazing, nails digging. There’s no intent to hurt in James’ actions, only desperation, a desire to crawl into Francis’ skin and stay there. It worries Francis as much as it endears him; it’s a desperation that doesn’t come easily to James—only after the expedition with his uncle, after Francis’ own disappearance for years. 

It’s a desperation that usually comes with protruding bones and unshaven beards—a stomach that hungers as much as it rejects food. But there are no bones stabbing either of their chests, no unshaven beards but a day’s stubble between them. When Francis puts his own melancholy aside, it’s everything they should be, yet James pushes into his body as if to occupy it, like something has broken in the last minute.

“James—” He tightens his own fingers in James’ hair to get him to stop pushing. There’s a whine as James’ mouth disconnects from Francis’ neck. “James—what is wrong?” 

“Let me promise you.” James tries to nip at what parts of Francis’ face he can reach, his lips brushing past the corner of Francis’ mouth ever so slightly as Francis tries to keep him at a distance. “ _ Please _ —Anne wrote to me, Anne told me.” 

Francis can’t help the sigh that escapes him. Naturally Anne would write to James about it all; naturally James would make himself think it was all his fault—that he’d been gone too long, too often, when Francis could barely even keep up with the world. 

“Francis—“ 

Francis lets his fingers loosen, James’ lips on his instantly, tongue flicking desperately at his bottom lip. He lets James deepen it—wanting, almost eager as James uses the kiss to push Francis back against the back of the chair as they break apart again. 

James doesn’t get up, doesn’t motion to join Francis in the chair like he’d done so many times before, merely kissing his way down the parts of Francis’ body he can reach, through the fabric of the shirt where he has to. His hands have abandoned their place across Francis’ ribs, slipping down and under the hem of the shirt, looking for the buttons of Francis’ trousers. 

“ _ James _ —” Francis gasps; James’ hand is heavy against the front of his trousers. His fingers tighten again and he can see the desire in James’ eyes as he does so, his reaction seemingly playing into James’ wants. He lifts his hips—partially to assist, partially to seek friction, a moan rising within the back of his throat.

James’ mouth is hot as it replaces his hand, even through the layers of shirt still covering his erection. He can’t help but buck his hips upwards, trying to hold James’ head in place with his hands. 

Delicate fingers slip the shirt tails out of place but James kisses his inner thigh instead, teasing,  _ loving,  _ the desperation turned into a show of love that overwhelms Francis before it has even truly begun. Pupil-blown eyes look up at him, nothing but adoring; another kiss to his thigh. 

“Can I promise you, Frank?” Another one, on his stomach this time, James rising ever so slightly to expose Francis’ stomach. He runs his fingers across the curls growing on Francis’ thigh, ever so close to Francis’ hard cock. 

“Yes— _ yes. _ ” He inhales sharply as James runs his tongue down across him. It’s hard to think, to listen to James’ sudden questions, to focus on reality as the tip of James’ tongue slowly circles him. It takes all of his willpower to not simply buck up straight into James’ mouth. But it’s James’ moment—James’ promise and he deserves to be allowed to take control. “James—please.”

James' mouth is hot and wet as he finally takes Francis in his mouth, his fingers digging softly into Francis' hips, thumbs drawing distracted circles. He moans around him, the vibration going straight to the base, and Francis can't help but echo the noise, unmuffled and loud into the open air. 

James smirks up at him as he lets go again. He peppers kisses across Francis’ thighs, all of them close enough to make Francis twitch in the loose grip James now has on him. He struggles to look at James, staring up at him with eyes that reveal everything he’s thinking about. 

“Look at me, darling,” James whispers against the tip. It sends a shudder through Francis’ body and another as James kisses it. Francis looks down again, fearing to drown in the lust-filled eyes. “Look at me, I need you to see that I mean it.” 

He keeps looking at Francis as he slots his mouth over Francis’ cock again, slowly taking him in entirely. Francis tries to keep his eyes on James as requested, but it’s hard, his brain struggling to process all the caresses and touches. James’ mouth is warm to an overstimulating degree as he swirls his tongue around the tip, as he lets it bump against the roof of his mouth, knowing just how sensitive Francis is in that place. 

“ _ God _ —James—” Francis’ fingers tighten in James’ hair, forcing the man to a halt with Francis’ member far in his mouth, Francis having bucked up in surprise and excitement as James’ fingers wandered down his inner thighs, caressing and fondling as they went. He fails at James’ request as his head flies backwards against the back cushion, breathing ragged and littered with soft moans when James resumes his rhythm. 

Francis knows he won’t last long, not with the way James is abusing his knowledge of Francis’ sensitive spots to make him twitch and shift in his grip. His nails drag slowly along James’ skull; the slightest indication for James to go faster, to stop teasing him. 

He can’t help the whine that escapes him, loud and drawn out, his fingers slipping from James' hair as James pulls away again, letting go of Francis to stand up. 

“What are you doing?” Francis manages, not entirely sure how his brain figured out an entire sentence. His eyes follow James’ half-undressed form across the room, to the bedside table, Francis’ taking himself in hand, stroking distractingly. 

James is swift in his sudden journey, grabbing a small bottle from the box on top before returning to his position in front of Francis. He swats gently at the hands with the bottle. “Stop doing my job for me, love.” 

He kisses the inside of Francis thighs again, before grasping Francis’ hips to drag him forwards, tilting him so more of Francis is exposed to him. Another kiss, now on the tip of Francis’ cock. 

Francis groans and shifts his hips, his behind now hanging off the chair almost entirely. He lets James lift his legs and wrap them around James’ neck, his heels instantly digging impatiently into James’ back to try and get him closer.

He’s sure his face flushes bright red as he feels his cock twitch at the noise of the bottle opening in James’ hands. Even redder when James keeps placing small kisses everywhere, chaotically, his tongue slipping out every now and then. 

He gasps at the sudden feeling of cold oil dribbling down his skin, slick fingers dragging across his skin. "James— _ fuck _ —" He buckes up again, “—could you possibly promise a little faster.” 

“Maybe,” James whispers with a kiss to Francis’ stomach, looking up to make sure that Francis knows and agrees with what he wants to do. 

Francis nods. And then he almost swallows his plea as James gently presses a finger inside him, breathing in sharply at the sudden feeling of fullness. He raises his hand to muffle his own moans, but James grabs it mid-air and drags it back down, wrapping it around the base of Francis’ cock, covering it with his own. 

“I want to hear you,” he says. Francis knows his attempt at remaining quiet fails when a choked groan escapes him, James pressing a second finger inside, straight against the most sensitive spot inside him, and taking him back in his mouth at the same time. 

“God—” He struggles to have a single coherent thought after James curls his fingers inside him. His position makes it impossible to roll his hips into it; a whine escapes him instead. “ _ Please.” _

James thankfully obliges, setting into a slow rhythm that has Francis moaning softly with it. A small noise of pleasure falls from his lips every time James hits that certain spot. His free hand settles in James’ hair again, fingers stroking through the soft locks, every movement between the two of them the same speed. 

It doesn’t take long for Francis to feel overwhelmed with it all—James’ mouth, the way that James holds his hand to have him stroke along, the fingers inside him ceaselessly hitting the same place. His breathing becomes more ragged, heavy and irregular. He can’t help but say “James” over and over, between the moans and grunts, the name one with his breathing. 

He digs his heels into James’ back to bring him closer; tries to get him to speed up, his hand wrestling itself from underneath James so his can be on top—so he can set the speed. James gives in, with a mild vengeance, his fingers picking up speed inside Francis, more speed than Francis intended. Yet he doesn’t change the tempo of his mouth, the sudden differences in speed sending Francis toward a rapid conclusion.

“James—” he chokes out, louder and clearer than the previous times. “ _ James.” _

He almost whines again as James removes his mouth and replaces it with his hand, now entirely up to speed with his working fingers. There’s a kiss on his inner thigh again, James’ lips wet with precum and saliva as he whispers against Francis’ skin. “I promise, Frank,  _ I promise so badly. _ ”

Francis stills, breathing caught in his throat as he comes in James’ hand, his leg muscles tensing against James’ hips. His hands fall uselessly on his stomach, sullied. Little whiny grunts escape him as James doesn’t relent in his actions, stroking Francis throughout his entire orgasm, his fingers stilling deep within Francis, the tips merely caressing the sensitive spot. 

“James.” He finds it hard to speak, the unwilling noises overtaking his vocal chords. It’s only when his breathing evens out that James lets go and pulls out. 

Francis laughs, rather breathlessly, as James climbs on top of him in the chair, knees on either side of him. The kiss tastes slightly salty but Francis can’t care; he pulls James closer against him to deepen the kiss. 

He grunts suddenly, something hitting his still sensitive dick. “ _ Ah _ .” 

James’ trousers don’t take long to undo, the flap falling down and the tails being pushed aside easily to reveal James’ own erection. 

“Francis—” 

Taking James in one hand, he pulls the man back in for a kiss with the other, silencing him as he makes quick work of James’ arousal. James buries his face in Francis’ neck to muffle the loud moans as he struggles to sit still and not ride Francis’ hand. It doesn’t take long and James comes with his teeth sunk in Francis’ collarbone, the only warning being his fingers digging into Francis’ neck. 

“I do believe you,” Francis says after James sits back up, using his own shirttails to wipe the both of them down quickly. 

“Good.” James collapses into Francis’ arms, his lips nibbling gently at whatever bit of skin he can find. “Because I love you. And I felt like I was losing you even though you’re right here.”

Francis doesn’t reply but merely strokes his fingers through James’ hair, almost absent-mindedly. He tries to not think of the thoughts that haunt him—of James’ worries and fears that were, to Francis, rooted in nothing—but only of the contentment between them. The way James still folds almost perfectly into his arms; how he still purrs when scratching that exact spot at the back of his skull, the noise filling the air between them. 

They have conversations left between them, serious and less so, but mostly, they have love between them, still, after all those years. They can—should—discuss everything complicated between them, but after. After they leave the chair and go to bed. After they go to bed and sleep. After. 


End file.
